Lord of Desire (65 page)

When Honoré fixed her with his concerned gaze now, though, Alysson gave up the pretense of hiding the truth. Sinking to her knees beside his bed, she took his hand. Her intimacy with Jafar had been her choice, her decision, and she had to make her uncle understand that.

"He didn't force me, Uncle," she said quietly. "I went to him of my own free will."

"Sacre Dieu
. . ."
Honors stared at her. "How could you, Alysson? The man is a savage, a barbarian."

"He is not. He is as civilized as you or I. In fact he is the son—" Alysson broke off abruptly. She wanted to share her knowledge about Jafar's English heritage, but she didn't have the right, not unless Jafar wanted it known. "He was educated in Europe," she finished lamely.

"What does that matter? He is a heathen and a murderer!"

"He is not!"

"He is! He and his savage horde slaughtered scores of French troops! He nearly killed the man you might have taken as a husband! Have you forgotten Gervase?"

"No." She pulled her hand from her uncle's grasp as guilt returned to assail her. "I haven't forgotten."

"Alysson . . ." Honoré waved his hands helplessly. "You know that I love you like my own child. I only want what is best for you. I wish I could dismiss this as simply some wild prank of yours. But this ordeal you have been through has obviously affected your judgment.''

Alysson looked away, her throat tight. "I want him. Is that so wrong of me?''

Honoré raised his fist in the air. "Yes and yes and yes! What future is there in it for you?"

"I . . . don't know."

Her uncle shook his head sorrowfully. "You and he are too different. Your ways are too different. It can never be."

For a long moment Alysson didn't answer.

"What a horror this trip has become," Honoré muttered finally. "How I wish we had never come to this heathen country."

Alysson could not wish the same. If she'd never come to Algeria, she never would have met Jafar, never would have fallen in love, never would have known such fulfillment as a woman.

And yet she couldn't simply blithely dismiss her uncle's concern.
Could she have a future with Jafar?

It was a question she didn't want to face, but one that occupied her thoughts almost to the exclusion of all else during the next few days. She loved Jafar, but she wasn't at all certain he could ever return her love.

So much stood between them.
Even if she were willing to give up her own life—her family, her religion, her entire culture—in order to live with him, would Jafar want her, an Englishwoman, in his life?
And if so, in what capacity?
He would not want an English wife, most certainly. Not when he'd disavowed his English heritage and turned his back on his mother's people. Not when he blamed her fellow Europeans for the murder of his parents and the rape of his country.

Besides, it was presumptuous of her even to think Jafar might take her for his wife. He had never spoken of marriage or even love. And his duty required him to marry a noblewoman of his own country.

What had he meant by his cryptic remark? Alysson wondered.
If you were truly my woman, you would not want to leave here.
Was he saying she had a choice? But no, he would not let her decide whether to stay or go. He was the most possessive man she knew. What belonged to him would never be surrendered easily. He had never once made any mention of her release. That afternoon by the waterfall, Jafar had merely jested about playing her slave for a few hours.

And as satisfying as it had been to have him at her mercy during their erotic lovers' games, she hadn't forgotten that any power she enjoyed over him was totally at his discretion, because he allowed it. Nor could she forget that Jafar had vowed she would call him master someday.

That was not the kind of relationship she wanted with him. She wanted them to be equals, not master and slave. But then, her wishes hardly mattered. In fact, she was slowly, painfully, coming to the realization that her happiness belonged to Jafar, whether she wanted it so or not.

And despite her uncle's warning that she had no future here with Jafar, Alysson feared that it no longer mattered. Lamentably, she had little pride left. She might even have remained with Jafar as his mistress, if only he had asked.

But he didn't ask.

The week following their magical afternoon of lovemaking was a time of torment and confusion for Alysson as she struggled with her feelings for Jafar. Self-respect alone kept her from confessing her love for him. How piteous a figure she would cut if she begged him to allow her to stay and he refused. Or if he grew tired of her and turned to another woman. She couldn't bear his pity or his disinterest. And so she remained silent, as did he.

She would have liked to ride off her frustrations and uncertainties on the back of a swift horse, but the weather turned cold and ugly—the bone-chilling slashing rain of late November. More to the point, Jafar had forbidden her to ride without his accompaniment. It seemed that a lion was stalking the hills, preying on livestock, and Jafar did not want her exposed to such danger. Alysson would have argued, but on the subject of her safety, Jafar was adamant. After her near-death from the scorpion's sting, he was not inclined to risk her life again.

It was nearly the end of November, by her calculations, when she was forcibly reminded that not only her future was at stake, but Jafar's as well. Alysson had gone up to the rooftop to be alone when she spied a large crowd of black-robed men gathering in the village arena. Suddenly uneasy, she hurried downstairs and found Mahmoud.

The boy was nearly the only male present in the house.

The tribal council was meeting to vote on Jafar's impeachment, but Mahmoud was too young to attend.

Alysson turned pale when she heard the news, but she squared her shoulders in determination.

"I mean to attend the council meeting, Mahmoud. Will you accompany me?" Even as she spoke, she turned and strode quickly across the courtyard.

"You?
But you are a female,
lallah!"

"What does that have to say to anything?" she replied impatiently, walking so fast that Mahmoud had to scurry to catch up.

"It is not permitted for a woman to attend without invitation."

Hearing his shuffling gait, Alysson paused to wait for him. "I mean to speak in your lord's defense, with or without an invitation. But I need you to act as my translator. Now, will you come with me or not?"

The boy's scarred features showed an agony of indecision—whether to defy the lord but act in his best interests. "Oh,
lallah,
I dare not," he said finally.

"Then I shall go alone."

That settled it; Mahmoud went.

The warriors guarding Jafar's house allowed her to pass without challenge, but as she approached the crowd, Alysson slowed her pace and drew the hood of her burnous forward to hide her face.

For a short while, her presence went undetected. Nearly all the men of Jafar's tribe were there, Mahmoud explained in a whisper, as well as the ranking officials of ail the neighboring tribes, but they had their backs toward her, their attention focused on the speakers in the center of the gathering. She could not see Jafar, but she heard him speak occasionally. And with help from Mahmoud, Alysson was able to follow the line of conversation.

Jafar's prime accuser, it seemed, was a cousin of Zohra's, a
caid
of another tribe, and the prime allegation was one of betrayal of the blood oath.

"You have failed to avenge the death of the late lord, your father," Zohra's cousin charged in a ringing tone.

In response, Jafar began his defense for sparing the life of his blood enemy. "My lord father's death has been avenged. Blood has been spilled in battle."

The sudden chorus of whispers that suddenly broke out around Alysson made her
realize
she'd been found out. She felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her.

Then the whispers quieted, while the sea of warriors slowly parted, making a path to the highest-ranking members of the council. She could tell by the severe expressions on the faces of the Berbers around her that they highly disapproved of her interruption. Some, like Zohra's cousin, were incensed by her presence.

As for Jafar himself, she couldn't tell what he was thinking. His eyes narrowed for a moment upon seeing her, but otherwise he showed no sign of surprise. Perhaps he had come to expect such outrageous behavior from her, Alysson thought uneasily.

He stood there waiting imperiously, looking every inch a prince in his flowing scarlet robes, a regal warlord in total command of the moment. Drawn by the power of his golden gaze, she moved forward, while Mahmoud trailed miserably behind.

"I should like permission to address the council," she said finally to Jafar, and was pleased that her voice did not quaver.

"To what purpose, mademoiselle?"
His cool tone was devoid of emotion, giving her no encouragement.

Alysson bit her lip. Perhaps she was acting foolishly for daring to intrude on the council's business, but she couldn't stand idly by while Jafar paid such a high price for his act of mercy. "I . . . want to speak in your behalf. Whatever your reasons for sparing Gervase, politically it was a wise move. He is one of the few officials in the French government sympathetic to your cause, and he can help. I think your tribal leaders should consider that before they condemn you."

Jafar's features seemed to soften for a brief instant, but if he was flattered or displeased by her eagerness to defend him, he gave no other sign. "There is no need for you to be here,
Ehuresh
. "

She started to protest, but his next words forestalled her; Jafar raised his voice again to address the crowd. "Gervase de Bourmont is a good man," he said clearly in his own language.

At first Alysson thought she must have misunderstood, even with her growing command of Berber, but Mahmoud's translation into French verified what she'd heard. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Jafar was actually defending his blood enemy?

"This Frenchman is not like the others of his kind," Jafar told the council. "He has used his office to help our people, not to drive us into proverty and submission. The Englishwoman has pleaded on his behalf and sworn his innocence, and I believe her. This man Bourmont is not his father. It is not required that his life be forfeit."